


From Under the Mask, Delivered

by Grimmy88



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Breeding, Chases, Come Marking, Come Shot, Dubious Consent, Horror, Knotting, M/M, Mating, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Injuries, Rimming, Size Difference, Size Kink, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmy88/pseuds/Grimmy88
Summary: A request from a very lovely tumblr user who wishes to remain anonymous. The request: alternate universe Dwight/The Trapper where the former delivers to the wrong mansion. Poor Dwight is chased through the giant estate and captured..."The address couldn’t be right.The pizza was warm within his insulated bag which he held between his hands, about to be delivered ‘thirty minutes or less’. Or, well, it was supposed to be, but he was pretty sure he was in the wrong place. In fact, he’d say about ninety percent sure.Supposedly, the person who had placed the call had been a girl, bubbly and flaky, as attested by his coworker. With that in mind, Dwight Fairfield had been expecting some suburban house, not the imposing, decrepit mansion standing somehow darker than the night around it."
Relationships: Dwight Fairfield & Evan MacMillan | The Trapper, Dwight Fairfield/Evan MacMillan | The Trapper
Comments: 35
Kudos: 348





	From Under the Mask, Delivered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Serria_Foxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serria_Foxx/gifts).



> This can be read however you, dear reader, would like. An alternate universe or maybe as a different form of amusement for the entity? The choice is yours and I hope you enjoy!

The address couldn’t be right.

The pizza was warm within his insulated bag which he held between his hands, about to be delivered ‘thirty minutes or less’. Or, well, it was _supposed_ to be, but he was pretty sure he was in the wrong place. In fact, he’d say about ninety percent sure.

Supposedly, the person who had placed the call had been a girl, bubbly and flaky, as attested by his coworker. With that in mind, Dwight Fairfield had been expecting some suburban house, not the imposing, decrepit mansion standing somehow darker than the night around it.

After hanging his helmet and hat from one of his bike’s handlebars, he fished out his cellphone, frustrated and more than a little unsettled as he tapped in the number to his work. On the other end of the call his coworker confirmed the address.

Dwight had an ugly thought and a sinking feeling. “Are you guys playing another prank on me? There’s no way this can be the place…” He looked around. “I’m in a part of town I didn’t even know existed. The address led me to some old mansion that looks like nobody’s lived in it for a decade or two.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if it _was_ a joke, considering it would have been the fourth time. Their manager had ranted at the guilty party after the second one when they’d given him the wrong address. She’d been thoroughly pissed that her employees would sabotage the delivery for their own amusement. Dwight had appreciated that at the time, even if it hadn’t entirely been because of his feelings on the matter. Now, he wished she hadn’t said a thing because their next trick had been to swipe his suppressants and he still hadn’t gotten them back. One of the bigger guys had threatened him about going to their manager, and that little lady might have the power to fire them, but she couldn’t keep them from waiting for Dwight in the parking lot after his shifts. Ultimately, all he could do now was wait for his insurance to fill his prescription.

He wasn’t sure how they’d known he was an omega. He’d never mentioned it, but… well, maybe it was obvious in his mannerisms or something because the suppressants had certainly covered his smell in addition to keeping his heats at bay. Regardless, the group wasn’t _always_ awful to him and he’d be fine without his pills for a few days. It was nothing to get worked up about.

“Nobody cares enough about you to risk their jobs,” the other employee said pointedly. “I’ll call the girl back and double check.”

He was going to give a meek answer, but something caught his eye in the upstairs window: it was a light, dim and flickering but unmistakable, even when thick, dark curtains swung down to hide it.

“Hey!” the voice on the phone snapped. “Did you hear me?”

“Uh, yeah,” he affirmed, the gears in his head starting up with a rusty jerk. “Look, it might be the callers pranking me, instead. I just saw them in the window. Call me back once you get ahold of her, please.”

“Go knock and see, at least. Don’t make a scene.”

Dwight gave a hesitant but affirmative sound, completely reluctant to approach the gate as the call ended. Once through it, he balanced the pizza between his hip and palm so he could fiddle with the features of his phone. Once his flashlight was enabled he was able to avoid the crags and debris marring the double-ended driveway, though he did feel an oddly pliant branch or plant or _something_ snap just above his ankles as he made his way up to the front of the house.

From there he took slow, uneven steps until he reached the double-doored entry. Once there he waited, quieting his breath so he could listen for the sound of a phone chiming inside. There was only silence, save for the interruption of a chorus of crickets making their music in the warm summer air.

He managed to convince himself to ring the bell, but he couldn’t hear a corresponding chime from inside, so he stuck his phone upright in one of his vest’s pocket so that its beam was aimed at the door. With that illumination he struck his knuckles against the wood three times. And, as if plucking the imagery straight out of his worst nightmares, one of the doors groaned open.

His gut screamed for him to get the hell out of there. His coworker had to have been lying, he thought wildly, or a bunch of teens were waiting inside to jump out of the shadows at him, phones ready to record his terrified reaction once they shrieked in his bespectacled face. But, if it _was_ the latter and he ran with his tail tucked between his legs, pizza and all, he could lose his job, not to mention be the target of his coworkers’ ridicule even more than he already was.

He had to take several deep breaths to ease the icy dread that had frozen the pattern of his lungs. It must not have gotten enough oxygen to his brain, though, because he still made the terrible decision to push the door open.

It was too dark to see anything clearly, besides the general structure of the entryway. To say it was black inside was an understatement. It was as if the streetlights were as hesitant as he was to peek into the house. Still, there was some light filtering in and when his eyes acclimated, he could at least tell that the front doors had opened onto a foyer. To the left he could make out the lines of a curved stairway going up. Beyond that, as far as he could see, there wasn’t anyone standing or even hiding in the open area. That meant he’d have to go deeper to find someone, make his delivery, and get paid.

Or to be scared bad enough to shit his pants and _then_ get paid.

He readjusted his grip against the tremor that raced along his bones and stepped in. Thankfully, the door decided to stop its cliché act and _not_ shut behind him once he was standing fully inside the mansion.

Carefully, he tightened his hold on the pizza, determined to keep the pie intact and in his clutches in the event that someone _did_ jump out at him. Then, slowly, he turned his body so that the flashlight app, still ablaze, could illuminate the area. The foyer itself was tall—two-storied as it went up with the stairs. To his left there was a hallway that presumably led to one of the giant house’s two garages he’d seen outside. When he turned right instead, the light shone and caught the skeletal legs and arms of chairs situated around a grand table. Their combined shadows projected onto the wall behind them, like spider legs lengthening and reaching with each step the delivery boy took.

As unsettling as that was, the only thing in the room to frighten him was the dust on top of all the seats. Well, almost all the seats. When he got to the head of the table there was one, pulled out as if for regular use. The corresponding clean spot on the table above it meant someone must have used it recently.

So… that was pretty creepy.

If some teenagers _were_ behind this, they’d gone to great lengths to make the atmosphere of a possibly-abandoned mansion all the freakier.

Behind that seat was another long hallway that went in two directions: left in a straight or right around a corner. Along its walls were several paintings. He didn’t recognize any of them as famous ones—they were mostly landscapes with the odd person here and there. One, more prominent and clean than the others, was of a father and son. Or, he figured they were related because of the resemblance between them. The son was more striking—youthful, with dark hair and a handsome face. Much more handsome than his father’s, so his mother must have been beautiful.

The turn in the hall seemed to go to a guestroom of some sort. Further on his light fell on what must have been a laundry room. Beyond that lay the second garage. So, he turned and shuffled instead into a kitchen. There was another table in here. Yet again, only one placemat was clean. Oddly enough, though, the kitchen didn’t seem as dirty as what Dwight had seen so far.

From there was a great room. Just like the foyer it went up two stories. This area, he figured, had to have been the center of the mansion. And so here he decided to try and diminish his ever-escalating dread. Though, his voice didn’t seem to get the memo.

“Hello?” he called, the sound tremoring just as much as his legs. “Is anyone here?”

He heard the wooden floors of the house creak somewhere further off, but the size of the place and the fact that he hadn’t explored all of it had left him disoriented. His ears picked up on the sound but failed to pinpoint its exact origin. Behind him loomed long, wide windows that seemed to bounce the noise right back at him, which did nothing to help the situation. They must’ve opened onto a porch and the backyard, but they also reflected his light so it was impossible to tell, really, especially with the glare on his glasses. There was a door next to them and he was tempted to open it and check for sure.

All too soon it didn’t matter what was outside, though, because inside there were loud, strong footsteps pounding behind him, down the gallery hall.

“Hello?” he tried again, though his throat constricted around most of the word. “D-did you order a pizza?” More heavy footfalls moved away from his current position. Then, loud and clear and rattling, the sound of the front door slamming shut echoed to his ears. The clank of metal, jangling and twisting, followed.

“Please,” he begged, though it was a whisper. “This—this isn’t funny…”

Panic seized his feet and worked its way up his body until it settled, knotting in his throat. He remained rooted, as if the sound had caused an eruption of stupefying fog in his head. He couldn’t seem to clear it until whoever’s footfalls and their strong stride started getting louder and thus _closer_.

He swallowed and tried to plead louder, feeling as though he was on the verge of tears: “Okay…you got me. I’m about to piss myself. _Please stop_.”

But the footsteps did _not_ stop. From the front door, through the dining room and the gallery hall, the exact same path he’d taken not minutes before, his tormentor stalked until finally, _finally_ they stepped into the great room.

For all his earlier acceptance of being frightened, for his earlier assurance that he’d at least maintain his grip on the situation—not to mention the pizza—Dwight felt as though he’d slipped into another reality when he took in the figure before him.

It was a man, broad-shouldered and thick-bodied. He was wearing what looked to be some sort of coveralls, though Dwight couldn’t tell the material of them due to the glare of his flashlight. Or the fact that his brain was having a hard time comprehending what it was seeing at all. He guessed it was hard to fathom because it was held together with crude, handmade clips in front of one of his shoulders. The overalls covered his legs, too, down until they disappeared into boots made of the same material. One leg was wrapped in bandages or tape.

The boots were not some kind of hiking boots, liked he’d assumed with the din they’d made. No, they weren’t heavy things that would’ve explained that racket at all. That meant this man had wanted Dwight to hear his approach.

And all of those things weren’t even the most terrifying. No, those would be the jagged metal pieces protruding from the imposing figure’s skin. There were chunks standing out from his shoulder and arms—the left adorned with more than the right. Some were sharp and pointed, others blunted, as if they’d been dulled while pounded into his flesh. The worst ones were at his shoulder, curved forward and holding his coveralls up. Dwight knew without looking, that they were sunk deep into the flesh of his back.

Beneath this attire, the man had to have been naked. His shoulders and arms and sides were bare as low as the coveralls dipped. This visible skin was marred by more than just the metal, too—it looked as though someone, long ago, had taken a blade to him and cut all along and into his body. Some of the scars were superficial, just enough for a bizarre sort of patterned design to crisscross the man’s muscular body. Others were deep and still an angry red color, discernable even under the blaring white of his light.

It horrified the young man, though he could pinpoint two exact reasons for the shaking of his body: the misshapen and crude cleaver clenched tight in the man’s right fist and the abhorrent mask upon his head.

The eyes were two tiny black holes surrounded by bleached white, one looked as though it had been slashed at but maybe that had been on purpose. The entire thing had to have been hand carved though from what it was too hard to see for certain due to the harshness of his phone’s flashlight. He could tell that it looked pinched in the middle, as if in mockery of a nose, but the worst part of it was the gruesome mouth—wide, _wider_ than it had any right to be—and grotesquely misshapen. It was lined with sharp, uneven and asymmetrical teeth, like a shark’s grin. Behind it was the man’s actual mouth, hidden though it was by shadow. Dwight knew it was hanging open because he could hear through the gaping space the man’s heavy, inhuman-like breathing.

He knew it _was_ human, but right now, with just about every part of him paralyzed save for the rapid-fire pounding of his heart, it sounded like an animal was before him. Like a predator.

And then the smell hit him: metal and blood and musk and _alpha_.

Dwight dropped the pizza.

The mask before him tilted to one side.

Dwight screamed.

The monster straightened back up at that and took a step towards him. And that was enough. Finally, _finally_ his treacherous, _cowardly_ body reacted to the danger. His legs lurched him to the left, back towards the kitchen, picking up speed until he was sprinting and putting as much space between himself and his pursuer as he could.

And that’s what he became, though the masked man didn’t run. Though, with the long stride of his legs it may not have been necessary. For now, it at least left a wide enough distance between them for Dwight to decide in two seconds which direction he was going to take once he found himself back in that gallery. Forward was one of the garages and all he could think was: what if the door didn’t open? Was there even any electricity running through this place?

Fearful of being trapped, he ran down the opposite direction.

He regretted it almost immediately because it was the _wrong_ choice. What lay beyond was another bedroom and if he ran into it, he knew his exit would be blocked by the thick body chasing him. The only other choice was a stairwell that disappeared down into blackness.

A basement.

All his choices left him with no choices at all, so, with those thundering feet gaining ground, he took the steps down two at a time, until his sneakers hit concrete.

The basement had a foyer of its own, which was ridiculous. Why did a basement need a foyer? It was unfinished, though, as it appeared the entire sublayer was. That’s all he could really think about it, because he was still being followed, loud and steady.

He paused long enough to rip his phone out of his pocket and cup it between both his hands. This both diminished and focused its beam ahead of him. With it contained, he opted to go right, ducking into the first open area. Though, the further he went, the more he realized that, technically, the entire basement was open with only a few walls dividing each room.

That was in terms of square footage, of course. In reality the basement was _not_ empty or wide open. It was hard to make out in his frantic rush to find a place to hide exactly what his legs were dodging. It all seemed to be blurred out gray under his darting light. Dimly, his mind registered that there was machinery and stacks of metal pretty much everywhere. But, the important thing for him—the one thing he needed to keep repeating over and over again, louder than his mounting fear, was: _do not trip_.

If he tripped, if he fell, it would all be over.

Down here the floor switched between concrete and dirt, and so his shoes alternated between sound: scuffing and patting. The air, already saturated with tiny particles, became bloated with the puffing dust disturbed by his running. It tickled his nose, but he refused to sneeze or clear his throat—he couldn’t. He was already risking too much keeping his light.

And then, he realized with a start, what an idiot he was. His light wasn’t the only thing risking him: he’d completely forgotten about his reflective vest, meant to keep him safe in traffic. Now, there was the chance that even the slightest bit of shine to any of the surfaces in the basement could reflect his own light back at him. It meant his vest was a potential beacon in the black of the basement.

He ducked behind the nearest wall and clawed at the zipper. It seemed like the loudest thing he’d ever heard in his life the way it snagged as he yanked it down in harsh jerks. The plastic-like material crinkled as he tore at it desperately until it was pooling down around his wrists. His first instinct was to shuck it to the floor and keep moving but he didn’t want there to be any sort of clue as to where he’d really gone, so after scanning his immediate area with his light, he tossed it over the furthest indiscernible piece of machinery and ran in the opposite direction.

He knew, distantly under the layers of terror in his mind, that his choices were running out. The shadows of the basement were disorienting him and he’d taken several turns with no knowing whether they’d rebounded him back towards the stairs or not. It was too late to check for sure; he had to make one last choice.

The nearest thing he could hide behind looked like an old chest, though he wasn’t sure it was exactly that until he was wedging himself against the wall and pulling the thick, dirty quilt atop it over himself. He hoped that under the smell of mothballs and age his own—now tinged with sweat and distress—would be as masked as his body was from sight.

From there he turned off his flashlight, clicked his phone to darkness, tucked it away, and used both of his gloved palms to cover his mouth. Then, after slowing and quieting his breath as much as he was able, he listened.

Those feet had followed him down the stairs, but he must have lost the man somewhere in the darkness because he wasn’t as close as Dwight expected. All that meant, however, was that he’d managed to get into his hiding place without being seen. It gave him a bit of hope as his follower began to pace the length of the basement.

The delivery boy listened, repeatedly, as those feet scuffed by and away from him. He listened to them go left and right. He listened to the way they sounded in each room. He listened to the way they sounded in the furthest room.

From this, he learned two things: the man couldn’t see in the dark any better than Dwight and from the noise he could estimate the basic layout of the basement as attested by the man’s obsessive searching. Knowing those two things was important. Knowing those two things ushered him to wiggle free from his hiding place.

And somehow, it worked. Somehow, he managed to slip from between the chest and the wall and slink his way through the blackness. Somehow, he found the stairs, tapped them with his big toe to prevent tripping, and made his way up them. Somehow, somehow.

That was enough to renew his hope. That was enough to incite his legs to move quicker, but no less softly. And as he got to that top step he actually let himself believe that he’d make it. But, for all the times people had called him a nerd, Dwight didn’t even have the intelligence of one going for him.

Because if he did, he would’ve known better. He would’ve known that, just like the door opening earlier, the top step would take a cue right out of a horror movie and groan the moment he set his weight upon it. Because, of _course_ it would. It felt like the very air in the basement paused in tandem with his breath.

Then it was all coming in a rush, the man booming across the concrete to follow him up and Dwight not waiting to see that horrible mask again. He took the gallery hallway back out, faster than he’d ever remembered running before, through the dining room to get back to the foyer. He threw his entire weight at the front door, pulling and gasping and whimpering when it barely moved.

When he withdrew he saw why: that metal jingling he’d heard earlier had been his pursuer trapping him inside with chains wound and twisted between the door handles and locked into place with an ugly, rusted padlock. He knew exactly where the matching key was and that meant there was no retrieving it. His mind raced wildly, circling back on the thoughts he’d had before about the garages and the electricity.

Then, he recalled those big windows opening onto a backyard beyond. He recalled the door that wouldn’t require a key or electricity to open. Once there he’d be out in the open. All he’d need to do was vault himself over the fence and get back to his bike.

_That’s all_ , he wanted to laugh at himself.

He’d have to double back through the dining hall to get to the kitchen and then back to the great room. That was the route he knew. That was the route that was cut off to him as that white mask slipped through the slivers of light coming from the outside world, cast directly into the foyer. The only path left was up the stairs.

And that was yet another place he didn’t want to go. The second floor could be just as much of a dead end as the garages or basement. But, just as before, he had no other choice to make, and so he sprang at them, taking them as he did the others before: two at a time until he was at the top landing.

Infuriatingly, terrifyingly, his hunter didn’t sprint after him. He continued to follow at an even pace, as if he had all the time in the world to wait for what he must have thought was inevitable. Dwight didn’t dwell on it; he had another choice to make. There were bedrooms either way, two on each side as far as he could tell at a glance. Ahead of him the house opened onto the great room.

He wondered, very briefly, whether he should take his chances and vault over the railing to land on the floor below. He recalled there’d been a couch, as little as his mind had registered it at the time. But, no—one inch wrong, one hard landing and he could easily sprain or break an ankle. What he needed was a window, preferably one with some kind of drain or something he could shimmy down, but he’d make do with the side of the house if he had to. He’d make do with anything at this point.

His best bet seemed to be the bedrooms to the left: they looked larger and probably had bigger windows for him to clamber through. He turned that way and shot his arms out ahead of him to grapple the knob of the closest door and shove it open. Once through the threshold he keeled to the side, slapping at the wall and trying to steady himself against the alpha pheromones that overwhelmed him.

Inadvertently he’d stumbled directly into this man’s bedroom and den. The scent within was dense and menacing and somehow cloying. Dwight pressed his wrist under his nose, though that dominant smell had already made his legs feel like they were more fluid than bone and muscle. Still, he tried to inhale his own scent as well as the leather of his gloves as he crossed through the thick of it. In the middle of the room lay a large bed, its blankets rumpled and obviously regularly used. Beyond that, off to the side, was an alcove turned into a sitting area. There were two chairs there, but more important were the four windows lining the semi-circular shape of the walls.

He chose the closest on the right, springing at it and pulling at the pane to get the glass to lift. When it didn’t he fumbled with the locks, turning them this and that way until the window was unlocked and he could shuck it open. The man entered the doorway the instant he kicked out the mesh separating him from the outside world. Unable to look out and plan his route, he climbed through, balancing his weight between his legs.

He had nano seconds to look below and judge the distance between him and the wooden covering of the patio below. Unlike the drop to the great room, he had faith that this one would leave his bones and joints and muscles intact. That is, if he made the gap. Doubting himself wasn’t something he had time for, though, so he tested the theory by _doing_.

He could feel a waft of air against the back of his neck as he dropped, meaning the man had missed grabbing him by _centimeters_. Luckily that was a disturbing thought he couldn’t fixate on, not with how his hip hit the wood and the rest of his body crumpled down upon it after what was most likely the world’s most ungraceful landing. He groaned aloud at the shock of it and the dull pain that laced up his right side.

Knowing he couldn’t spare even seconds to assess the aching, he pushed himself up on his arms and tried to get his feet back under him. Once he was poised in a squat, he risked a glance behind him to the window he’d exited.

That white mask was staring right back at him.

For one dreadful moment Dwight was certain that heavy body was going to launch after him. He was _certain_ this predator was going to land atop him and cleave his neck in half with that blade. But, he didn’t. He just stood and stared and then he _sniffed_ , an earsplitting and purposeful sound. Then, once again, his mask tilted.

Dwight shrank back across the covering and whimpered pathetically.

The man ducked aside, back into the darkness of the house. Both the delivery boy’s breath and mind stuttered, but his panic was dominant enough that he restarted again almost immediately. He had to get off the awning before that lunatic got back to those stairs. He had to be running through the yard as he was descending. He had to be climbing the fence before he ever reached the backyard. Then he could sprint back to his bike and leave.

The drop from the awning to the cement patio below wasn’t too far that it hurt when his feet hit. It did send him stumbling a bit off balance, but he was able to wheel his legs fast enough to avoid landing on his ass. Then he was taking off across the grass towards the fence. He crashed into it, hard and fast and blinded when a sudden explosion of light settled over the yard.

He lifted his hand above his brows, peering through the glare of his glasses to see that there were two spotlights perched on the back of the house. They were positioned to cover the entire yard, but at the moment he felt as though they were aimed only at his face.

The house _did_ have electricity. He could’ve escaped through one of the garages, he realized dimly. More importantly: at any point the man could’ve turned on the lights in the basement and searched more thoroughly. So, why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t he sniffed and explored and found his pathetic hiding place?

Was he playing with Dwight?

The young man started violently as the outline of that muscular form stepped into the doorway. It was difficult to uncurl his fingers from around the metal he’d clutched in his shock, even when the alpha stepped out into the backyard, onto the patio, and turned his mask to regard the delivery boy. But then, he didn’t move. He just stood and watched and waited. And Dwight watched back.

If this man had really wanted to catch him, why hadn’t he moved faster? Why was he standing and staring and _scenting_?

The mask tilted and Dwight’s visceral reaction was to scramble up the fence. The soles of his shoes slipped once and twice before the traction caught and he was able to vault himself over the fence and out of the yard. He fell flat on his face and hurriedly searched the grass for his fallen glasses. Once they were back on, he surged to his feet and sprinted away towards the front of the mansion.

Absurdly, he felt a laugh bubble up in the back of his throat. He let it spill over, loud and long when he chanced a look over his shoulder to see the alpha cut off by the fence, watching him run to freedom. He must’ve known he couldn’t catch Dwight now.

The omega promptly laughed again in triumph.

Turns out that he’d been watching him for an entirely different reason because suddenly Dwight wasn’t running anymore. Suddenly he _couldn’t_. Suddenly there was a searing pain in his shin and calf. Suddenly he was crumpled down and immobilized.

Suddenly he was staring, dazedly, at where his leg was caught in a bear trap.

He screamed again for the second time that night.

Distantly he heard a gate opening, but he was too busy grabbing and feeling at his muscle to stem the flow of blood… but he couldn’t find any. He didn’t know how that could be, he could feel the biting pain. He could feel that something had been twisted or sprained when he went down mid-run. But he couldn’t feel the blood. That thought scared him more—if he pulled free would the wound open? Would he bleed out? Would he die yards away from his escape?

But if he didn’t open the trap and run the alpha would kill him anyway.

He ran his fingers outward from where the teeth were embedded in his skin to find a place to pry the metal open—but as they skimmed over the snare he discovered he hadn’t been bleeding because the teeth hadn’t sliced into his skin. They weren’t sharp enough to.

They were blunt, gripping things, meant to keep prey in place. Meant to restrain but not pierce.

Baffled and hysterical at this point, Dwight channeled as much strength as he could into his hands and forearms to force the trap open enough to pull free. The metal budged maybe a centimeter and then his strength gave out. He cried out again as the teeth clamped back around his leg.

There was hot pricking in his eyes and his vision began to blur over, a reaction to both his pain and fear. He set upon the trap again, desperate, but he knew he wasn’t strong enough.

And then it was too hard to see his attempts as his hunter’s shadow fell over him and blocked the light spilling over from the backyard. Dwight looked up, tremoring so much the snare rattled. He gave one more feeble attempt at freedom, but his eyes were too focused on that mask as it came closer with measured, forceful steps.

The alpha stopped before him, huge shoulders settling back. And somehow, although the smaller man couldn’t see his face, every part of his posture emanated _smugness_.

_Shouldn’t have laughed_ , his mind stuttered as if that had anything to do with the bear trap bruising his flesh.

His trapper took one more menacing step to tower completely over him.

Dwight did the only thing he could: he begged.

“Please,” he couldn’t get it louder than a whisper, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

The big man dropped heavily onto one knee and slanted forward over the trap, right into the omega’s personal space, so close that mask would have hit him had Dwight not pitched backwards as far as he could. It sent another jolt up his leg which wrangled another strangled sob out of his throat. It was made worse when the pheromones settled over and between them, yet again.

He put a hand to his face and turned away. “P-please don’t hurt me.”

In his peripheral the man’s thick arm raised—it looked as though it was the size of Dwight’s torso for how lined with muscle it was. In his hand he had the cleaver, and with all that strength behind it, the omega could only imagine how much damage it was going to do as it was lifted over that mask.

He threw his arms over his head, but when that metal cut down through the air it embedded in the lawn beside him and not in his skull. Dwight peered through his limbs at it, still too close for comfort, before turning an incredulous look on the alpha.

Thick fingers curled around the snare and, as effortless as breathing, the large man pried it open. In this, the delivery boy’s mind did not hesitate. He pulled his leg free, though it hurt to do so, and watched, dumbfounded, as those hands released the trap and it snapped shut between them.

For a heartbeat, he held his knee between his hands and stared at his… pursuer? Rescuer? Lunatic? Whatever title his mind wanted to give him, the dark eyes of his mask were staring back.

Something shifted and Dwight remembered himself. He floundered onto his stomach and got his good knee under him. He bounded off it, but his injured leg and the man’s extended reach stopped his attempted escape.

Dwight screamed as the tight fingers around his ankle exacerbated the pain, morphing it from dull flames to an inferno all throughout his left shin. Then they pulled and he went down hard into the ground, teeth clacking together as his cheek hit the dirt. He tried to claw back up again, but the grip on him moved to his bicep and hauled him up as if he weighed nothing. He swung around with his other arm, pushing and slapping and punching.

“What do you want?!”

The man rose, and so Dwight rose with him, still struggling and grunting with the effort of it. He wasn’t doing anything to deter or even slow the alpha’s movement, he knew, but he _had_ to fight. He had to move and resist—resist the grip on him, resist the smell around him, resist the threat _to_ him.

“No! No!” He yelled as his other arm was caught, as he was turned and cajoled, as he was lifted, pathetic and weak as he was, like a bag of feathers, over the crazy man’s right and metal-free shoulder. “Somebody help! HELP!”

He was too far for anyone to hear him. He was too drained and feeble to physically fight the other man off, evidenced when the psycho ducked down low to reclaim his cleaver, as if he didn’t have the extra weight of a human male hindering him at all.

Then they were turning, back towards and into the backyard. Back into the house. Dwight felt his throat constrict, so he refocused his energy back into his struggling. He thrashed out with his legs, pain be damned at this point. With his fists he pounded on the corded muscle of the man’s back, though he had a feeling it was doing more damage to his hands than the other way around.

As they were crossing over the threshold he managed to slap his grip to the doorframe and pause the alpha’s easy gait. With this leverage, he forcibly bent his good leg, bringing his knee into the man’s mask with enough of an impact to dislodge it entirely. With his captor momentarily taken off guard, Dwight kicked down, nailing the man in both his stomach and groin.

He was on his back before he realized he’d been thrown, but the pain was quick to lace up his back. He gritted his teeth against it and scooted back across the wood floor. He knew he should get to his feet, attempt to follow up the attack or escape, but he was caught, yet again, in the other man’s stare.

This time, though, there was no mask dividing them. This time he could see those dark eyes regarding him. And this time his brain could catch up. He’d seen this face before, in the gallery hall. Aged and scarred though it was now, it was the same young man he’d considered handsome in his portraiture.

The alpha reaffixed his mask and took one expansive breath. Dwight knew by the end of it that his stupor had cost him his last chance to run.

“Don’t,” he pleaded again. “I’m sorry—I just…” He looked over to where his pizza case lay not to far from them. “I didn’t mean t-to come into your home… it was a mistake.” He tried to move faster when one of those big hands reached for him. “Please! Whatever you want! M-my wallet! It’s in my vest in the basement—there’s money!”

The alpha very clearly didn’t want money. Dwight resisted the grip on his forearms and even managed to wedge his good foot between them and against the bigger man’s chest, but he just knocked it away like the annoyance it was. Then one of his giant hands settled over the smaller man’s throat and tightened.

It was a warning and the meaning was all too clear. Dwight went silent and pliant and was once again lifted onto a broad shoulder.

His captor strode through the house purposefully and easily now that it was awash in light. Why was it lit up? _How_ was it lit up? He couldn’t exactly imagine this guy sitting at a computer and paying his bills—or the even more ridiculous imagery of him writing a check and putting it in the mail.

So, who was he? What was this place?

With the lights on he could finally get a grasp of how grand the house was. He’d known it was big; it had felt like a labyrinth when he’d been running through it. But seeing it was something else entirely. Though just as dusty as it had been under his light, he could see how richly furnished it was. This man had come from a family of money. This man had come from a family of privilege.

So why was he riddled with shrapnel, carrying a rusty ( _please be rust)_ cleaver, and hiding behind a bone-white mask? What had happened here? What was happening now?

At the top of the stairs his abductor turned left.

“No,” Dwight whispered, though he hadn’t meant to let it slip at all. He tried to reach out for one of the walls, tried to kick free, tried to do what he could to _not_ return to that pheromone-soaked room. He’d become overwhelmed within seconds the first time and had barely made it through. Now, he knew this man would keep him there even longer.

He supposed if this man wanted to kill him without any resistance _at all_ that would be the way to do it, because the moment they walked through the door it felt like he’d been spun too quickly in one of those teacup rides at an amusement park. His eyes darted around, trying to focus on a spot on the wall—any spot—and failing repeatedly. The lightheadedness was so bad that his hands were even scrabbling for purchase against his kidnapper’s muscles, digging in and clinging when he felt as though he was slipping from his hold.

He tried to clutch at the strong arm that shifted and tossed him back on the bed he’d completely forgotten was in the room. In this alpha’s _den_.

Dwight groaned, pained and dazed and near suffocated. The smell around him wasn’t bad—it was pungent and heady, laced with blood and sweat and musk. But the alpha part of it—the spicy warmth of it was in sharp contrast to the terrifying man staring down at him.

“Please,” he repeated, though he was beginning to lose tract of what he was begging for anymore.

The mask tilted.

Dwight shrunk back into the mattress and sucked in a deep breath because he couldn’t just stop breathing. Then he put a hand over his glasses as if he could hide behind it. “Please stop tilting your head at me.” It was a pitiful request and there was no reply; the delivery boy wondered if he even _could_ reply.

After several seconds he spread his fingers apart so he could look between them. He jumped and gave a startled squawk when he found the mask directly above his face. The man had bent in half as if to inspect him and Dwight had nowhere to go except up against the pillows.

“What do you want?” he asked again, though his voice was too unsteady for it to sound like the demand he meant it to be.

There was a dull thud as the cleaver dropped to the floor and then those free hands were planting onto the mattress so his captor could lean even closer. And then, presumably through the large hole disguised as a mouth, he _sniffed_.

Dwight recoiled.

His first reaction after that was to roll away. He managed to get onto his front, but his mind was too clouded to realize that turning over was going to put his face directly into the mattress and sheets and blankets that reeked of alpha. The movement just seemed to displace the smell directly up his nostrils and he had to dig his fingers into the softness beneath him because… because he had no choice. Because he needed something to grip as all his senses were overridden.

A hand grabbed his leg—his bad leg and pulled. He grunted and kicked out feebly, which made it feel worse. The hand moved and its partner joined to seize his hips and turn him back over.

“No,” he murmured. “Please stop, you’re hurting me.” He wanted to scream it, but as with the rest of his body, he couldn’t seem to muster the strength to make it happen.

The grip on him changed, turning into exploratory massages, as if the bigger man was assessing the give of his flesh as he moved from hip to thighs. Dwight grunted as a response to them, but that didn’t slow their path. When he tried to do it with his own hands the man moved, whip-fast, and snatched up his wrists in _one hand_ to pin them back above the delivery boy’s head. His other hand encircled his throat again, though this time he didn’t need to apply pressure as a warning.

“Okay!” Dwight yelped. “Okay, I won’t—I won’t!”

And he didn’t. He remained as he’d been placed, head lolled to the side and eyes shut firmly.

When the touch came back, it was at his left ankle, trailing there before stripping his shoe off. He heard it bounce against the wall and down to the floor and steadied himself for the other to follow. At least that way it didn’t hurt as much as it could have. He was going to lower that leg back down with the other but stopped when a big hand cupped his calf. The other held his ankle up.

Dwight didn’t look—not when his sock was stripped off, not when his flesh was squeezed, and certainly not when hot, moist breath puffed against his skin.

The alpha was analyzing his wound, though it wasn’t clear to his muddled mind _why_. Why assess it when he’d been the one to inflict it? Why look when it had all gone exactly how this trapper had planned? Why care now that Dwight was splayed in front of him?

But maybe the muscular man was some sort of monster—or could read minds at least—because he dropped the leg just as quick as the young man’s thoughts had filtered through his mind. The omega still couldn’t muster the courage to look—not until the bed dipped in three different spots. Two for the crazy man’s hands and one for his knee as he began to climb onto the bed.

Now he looked, bewildered and stupefied, at the mask and shoulders that towered above him, making him feel tinier than he ever had in his life. Then a giant palm settled into the middle of his chest and made it all the worse. He tried to bow his back right through the mattress beneath him to get away.

The palm smoothed down, over his stomach to his hip and then back further.

“No,” Dwight whispered in disbelief. _No, you can’t want that. Why would you want that?_

The man paused. He’d definitely understood the word and the smaller man didn’t need to see his face to know that he hadn’t liked the rejection. The tenseness was evident in his shoulders, in his posture, in his scent. Dwight shivered as it blanketed him, fighting to keep his eyes forward and not rolled back in his head. Fighting against his weak nature that demanded he bare his neck in submission.

With the lights, he could see the man’s mouth through the opening in his mask. He could see the tight, angry line it had settled into. For some reason he couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t stop his eyes from tracing the craggy scar that bisected the alpha’s lips.

Dwight broke his promise. He brought his hands up to protect his neck the moment the psycho reached for him. He managed to bat them away once, but then they surprised him by taking ahold of his shoulders instead. His body flipped easily, bouncing once on the mattress before he was drawn up and back against his captor.

He couldn’t tell through his shock whether the firmness at his back was metal or muscle. He wondered if there was much of a difference in the feel of the two for how girthy the other man was. Dwight had never seen anyone as big as him. He had to be near seven feet tall and wider than anyone had any right to be. In this new position, he wasn’t so much as being held as he was entirely dwarfed.

The taller man was able to spoon his entire back _and_ still hover over his shoulder so close that the rigid line of that mask grazed the side of the delivery’s boy face. Dwight tried not to lean against it. One of his thick arms, as thick as the omega’s torso as far as he could tell with how unfocused he’d become, reached down across his body. A firm hold cupped over his groin and squeezed.

Dwight whimpered and tried to shrink into himself. “No. No, you can’t.”

The other hand searched his torso, slipping fingertips against the lines of his throat and down. Immediately they took hold of his biking suit’s zipper and pulled.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged, mind whirring. There was too much liquid in his mouth and not enough air in his lungs. There was too much stimulation and too much wrong. There was too much nature and not enough recognition for the nurture. Not enough realization to temper down the hormones clamoring to respond to the pheromones seeping in through his nostrils and mouth and pores.

The zipper freed him all the way beneath his navel.

“You can’t,” he said, tongue heavy. “ _I_ can’t—please, I’m not on—!”

The hand working at his clothing snapped up, gripping the entirety of his jaw tight. Gripping the entirety of it shut. He whined against the strength above and below. But then even that was muffled when two bulky fingers shoved into his mouth and pressed down heavy on his tongue with the taste of copper.

He gagged when they teased the back of his throat, groaned when he felt his saliva swelling and seeping from the corners of his lips because of it, shuddered when he tried to swallow it all back and received a misguided but appreciate stroke of thumb against his chin.

The fingers rubbing between his legs moved to finish what the others had started. Without that support cupping him against his own body, Dwight was mortified to find that his dick had reacted to the attention. Had he been on his pills and had this been a normal alpha—some average-sized man without metal gouging out from his skin and a mask hiding his face, he could’ve excused it. Considering the grand number of people he’d slept with had been zero, he would’ve _welcomed_ it. But this wasn’t that. His body wasn’t being worshipped by someone who wanted to mate with him, who wanted to love him.

His body was being dominated by someone who wanted to claim him.

And yet, still, with all this in his thoughts and chest, his body betrayed him. He could feel it when the biking shirt was tugged completely open, allowing the heat that had been trapped up against his chest out, to allow his scent—yearning and receptive—to entwine with the demanding and assertive pheromones of the alpha.

Both hands moved in tandem then, feeling over the softness of his stomach and ribs and chest before slipping under the material at his shoulders and peeling it down off his arms, taking an extra two seconds to rid him of his gloves, as well. Dwight flopped against the mattress, at least trying to resist by acting like a fish out of water. He'd thought he’d been the epitome of the metaphor in high school, but he was beginning to see how wrong he’d been.

Right now, with hands on him, mapping him like he’d never felt before, his back cradled by a hot chest, his hips up and cocked, his knees sunk into the mattress—this wasn’t just being out of his element; this was an entirely new reality.

This was nothing he’d ever thought he’d experience.

His brow knit against the intrusive thought. Against the intrusive heat in his body. Against the intrusive embers of pleasure stoked by that heat.

His biking shorts went next, slipped off one leg and then another. That left him bare since he’d forgone having an obvious line of underwear under the skin-tight sleek athletic apparel. That left him naked for his abductor’s viewing save for one forgotten sock.

He was still on his knees and the position shamed him. He bowed his head but he could feel the dark eyes on his back as sure as he felt the fingers that followed the path. He felt as they rode out each bump of his spine, as they dragged over the skin over his hipbones. When they settled over his ass cheeks, he choked back the keening sound that wanted to claw out of his throat.

The alpha squeezed him there, pulled the cheeks apart and then let them go, presumably to watch them jiggle back together. Dwight felt the burn of desire and embarrassment in his face. This was a part of him he’d always been teased about—a part of him that had always seemed more out of proportion than the rest of his body. He’d thought in school that he could’ve used it to join football or some other sport—to use the strength of it and also to lose the weight of it. He’d failed at both and now, now the flesh was being kneaded and molded and slapped and considered.

He could feel the gaze on his curves and on the hole hidden between his cheeks when it was exposed. Worse yet, he could feel the man’s breath against it, cool and heavy. He realized it was because he was wet. He was _leaking_.

He shoved his face into the sheets under him.

Then suddenly, he was flipped once again, legs spread apart and everything on display. There was no way to hide because he knew the moment he tried he’d be physically reprimanded. As such, he hated how he could see the way the mask followed the motion of his cock as it flapped up against his lower abdomen, hard and pink. He was surprised that he could hate his body more than he already had before, but here he was, receptive and quivering under some psycho’s gaze.

The man pushed his legs up and apart and gave them a little extra nudge while looking at Dwight’s face so that he would get the message.

He did and he kept his legs there as the alpha withdrew to kick off his boots. They landed audibly on the floor below the bed and with them free he began on the fastenings of his coveralls. Once undone, he was able to rise and slip the material off in one easy movement.

Dwight would’ve looked away if he was able. Obviously, the man was strong; he’d been able to heft the omega up like he was made of plush instead of bone and muscle and fat. It was evident in the great bulk of him, in the swell of his arms and shoulders and thighs. Now it was so plainly on display. The scars above continued down his abdomen, making the already prominent lines of his abs even more so.

His genitalia seemed the only part of him unscathed. His dick, though…his dick was as big as the rest of him, standing out from the curls of his dark pubic hair, red and rigid.

Dwight hated how he twitched at the sight of it. How it made his stomach clench and flutter all at once.

The man moved one big knee and then the other to prowl close to the delivery boy once again. Beside him he stared, mask tilting bit by bit as it assessed the omega from face to chest to belly to dick to open thighs. Then callused, heavy hands followed the path in reverse. Dwight tried not to arch into it, but his captor’s skin seemed infused with the same heat that was so pervasive in the bedroom. And somehow it felt so good, _too good_ , to move away.

He bit his lip, a little self-conscious when fingers pressed into the softness of his stomach, forcing the skin to dent and give. Then he was self-conscious all over again when they found his nipples, tightened into firm little nubs. The alpha seemed to find them interesting if his rolling and pressing and pinching of them was any indication. By the end of it, Dwight had to force his back down onto the mattress.

The oddest part of the exploration, however, was when a hand clasped over his throat, not constricting this time, but resting and feeling with one thumb right over his pulse point. Then it moved up, along his chin and jaw in repeated swipes before moving onto his lips. Dwight shook and gaped as they were traced, dipped between and back out, before the wetness was drawn up over his nose and then to the side along his cheek.

Then his glasses were taken from his face.

“I…can’t see,” he admitted, sounding so close to a whine.

It didn’t matter. They were at least set aside with some care, though he couldn’t understand why. Nothing else had been done with care. So why his glasses? Why his body?

A grip took him under his knees, bending them back towards his chest. Dwight gasped and pushed his hands forward, meeting the wall-like torso as it moved between his legs. He pushed harder when that huge cock fell atop his own and then slipped down against his perineum with delicious friction. His trapper’s hips started to undulate which dragged his erection back against the smaller man’s hole, soaked and twitching as it was, and then forward to smear the slick along its trail. The rocking became easier then, wetter, faster, filthier. He could hear it, clicking and squishing until his grunting and keening and the deep breathing above him drowned it out.

Then the fat cockhead pressed at his opening.

“No!” he practically squealed, some part of his mind not lost in the fog of pleasure and pheromones recoiling at the pressure. “I’ll get pregnant… please, don’t.”

A hand took hold of his jaw, forcing him to face a mask that appeared to him as only a ghostly, white blur.

Dwight accepted what was going to happen. His body _more_ than accepted it. But, still, he wedged his good foot up against the crazy man’s chest.

“A condom,” he gritted out through the tense grip. “Please, you know what a condom is!”

The white visage tilted. It was less scary this time, certainly less scary than the giant dick trying to spear him dry.

That chest flexed against him, moving in, pushing his leg back as if he wasn’t exerting any force at all. Dwight kept trying, though his mouth felt as though it were stuffed with moist cotton. “You can’t go in like this. You’ll tear me apart. _Please_.” There was an awkward beat that almost made him want to laugh. “Lube… you know what lube is?” If he was smart enough to make those traps, he was smart enough to understand this. _And please, please have lube._

The force relented so fast Dwight’s leg shot free and dropped theatrically to the bed. The alpha just picked it back up as he shuffled back and down. Down so he was between the younger man’s legs again, so that he was just about between his ass cheeks, too. He pressed purposefully on the back of the delivery boy’s legs and Dwight obediently kept them there.

He arched his neck forward to see when those rough hands pulled his ass cheeks apart more than they already were. Then one of them moved and suddenly, confusingly that mask was staring at him. After a sudden moment of fear, he realized it had been angled up on top of the psycho’s head, exposing his real face just centimeters from Dwight’s opening.

He expected to feel his breath, what he did not expect was his finger to trace a bead of his slick back up his skin to his entrance. There he fondled around the puckered skin with the pad of his thumb and then, _then_ he followed it with the girth of his tongue.

Dwight groaned to the ceiling, eyes wide and all but blind and so he had nowhere to focus, nothing to distract from the insistent lapping and prodding and circling.

Now, the omega had played with himself before, but he’d never felt something like this. Not from his own fingers or lubrication or toys bought in the dead of night with shame tinting his face. And he hadn’t expected to feel it from another person—he’d _wanted_ it—but getting it like this he should have been repulsed, he should have been aghast, he should’ve been anything other than _turned_ _on_. It should have been anything but one of the best things he’d ever felt in his life.

He shouldn’t have slapped his hands to his own legs to keep them back and himself open. He shouldn’t have slammed his head back against the pillows and moaned. He shouldn’t have rutted into this insane man’s face to try to get the sensation _deeper_.

The alpha somehow made him more wet than he’d been before, his slobber and drool coating the sensitive flesh, outside and in. And that inward dribble was followed by a prodding tongue, squirming and flicking as if trying to reach deeper than the size of his jaw would allow. Dwight moaned and moved his hands forward, caressing the inside of his thighs and over to his cock and back again.

After several moments, his hand was replaced with one much larger, much rougher, much _better_. He moved between the dual stimulations, rolling his hips as he only ever imagined he would if someone had ever asked him to dance, if someone had ever wanted him like this.

That breath was on him again when the muscular man parted from his feast and then a path was drawn up Dwight’s middle, fingers testing the give of his flesh until two were forcing their way between his lips. He sucked them in, lathering them in his spit when, distantly, he knew he should’ve been clamping onto them with his teeth instead. Even the metallic tang of sweat and metal— _or blood?_ —didn’t amplify that disbelieving voice that tried to rally him back to coherency. It was too deeply buried under the pleasure, under the delicious haze that blanketed him.

The weight left his tongue, left his mouth hanging open and wet around the edges, left his voice to spill out with his panting. The bed shifted and then one of the dripping, fat fingers slipped into him without any resistance.

“Oh, fuck,” Dwight whispered, mesmerized by the sweetness of the intrusion.

Even when the second finger squished inside, though it was forcing his hole wider, forcing it to stretch, it was a satisfying feeling, the _right_ feeling. He groaned at the way they worked the give of his muscle, the way they alternated, the way they curled and spread.

“Please,” he breathed. Dwight’s mind couldn’t articulate what for, but the alpha seemed to know.

All the touch overwhelming him left because his captor was grappling him again, flipping him effortlessly onto his belly. He molded over the smaller man’s back, somehow carefully, somehow without letting that metal scrape and bite at his overheated skin. An arm was reaching, wood was creaking, and then he heard a slight pop, like the opening of plastic.

He turned his head and although everything was fuzzy, he could see arms and hands moving and he could make out a bottle between them. When he heard the application of its contents on the alpha’s erection, he knew that this man, this crazy trapper, was completely lucid.

And then Dwight was up on his knees, his hips pulled and angled back, his shoulders down, and a fat cockhead was nudging into him.

“Oh,” he grunted at the discomfort, voice gritty as it fought out its way out of his throat.

It should’ve been worse, and he’d probably realize that later when he could. But now, now it was just a matter of patience, of his body relaxing and accepting the girth. And his body did. Because his body _wanted_ it.

There were calluses skimming the skin of his back and sides and hips. There was patience in this caress. There was restraint in the steady way he was fed that huge dick until he felt the other man’s balls against his own.

“Oh, God,” he wheezed, astonished.

And he got an answer. The alpha didn’t speak, but there was an approving rumble in the sigh he made. Dwight’s erection bobbed because of it. His stomach fluttered. His instincts reveled in it.

The first motions inside of him were subtle, testing little movements. When it became easier, when even he could feel how his ass was sucking and pulling at that cock, when he needed more, the man behind him shifted. Dwight gripped the sheets and waited, ready for the pounding he’d seen so often in porn.

His captor pulled out, but his first thrust in was not painful nor rough. It was an easy, pleasant slide, one that stroked the omega’s insides with slow friction. And the next repeated it and the next and the next. The repetition kept getting faster, but the force behind it did not.

Dwight didn’t know if it was for his enjoyment or the trapper’s, but it was certainly to his benefit. The measured movement let him savor the hardness inside him, let him fixate on the way it glided against his inner walls, stimulating every last nerve in its wake. The omega reached back, thoughtless but for the chase of pleasure, and stabbed his fingertips into one of the hips moving as a piston against him.

He was surprised when a hand slipped over his own and followed the length of his arm up. Then the grip was in his hair, cocking his head back and anchoring him. When the moan he’d been gurgling on broke free, his alpha’s corresponding rumble felt like it vibrated him from within.

“Yeah,” he encouraged as the thrusting continued, as it built a crescendo of carnality between them. It was tangible, palpable, audible in the wet smack of their skin and the suction of his ass, greedy as he’d ever felt it. And it wasn’t just the pulses in his own body—he could sense the alpha’s enjoyment. He could feel the slight grinding motion, as if he wanted to mark and map every inch of Dwight’s sloppy insides.

The delivery boy shuddered at the idea, digging his palms into the mattress to ground himself against the tempo. “Please,” he requested again, the fire in his voice paralleling the one oscillating between the attention on his ass and the sudden circle of fingers around his dick.

They were still slippery and so he moved between the stimulations, grunting and gasping with each undulation of his body. He knew, even before he started, that this would force him to fall over the precipice he was driven towards. He tried to grab the bigger wrist, but he couldn’t get it to stop its jacking motions, couldn’t fight the way he humped back and forth, wanting everything and none of it all at once.

“I’m—it’s too much… Faster! Faster, please!”

Coherent as the alpha was, he increased his speed to please the wailing omega. He worked the fevered body, slapping up against him, tugging him, curling over him and making everything molten decadence.

And then the alpha’s knot snagged at his rim. He choked back a protest but after one, two thrusts it was inside him, locking him to the older man. He could feel the throb of an increased heart rate in it, in _him_. He could feel the pulsation of arousal in it, a forewarning of orgasm and ejaculation, and the realization followed that it would be shot straight inside him, wedged and held in his deepest parts.

The realization that he was going to be _bred_ …

The man above him curled over him suddenly, arms slipping around Dwight’s torso as his thrusts became short and uneven and quick, so quick, somehow trying to burrow that knot of his even further inside his omega.

“Yes,” the younger man babbled, “yes, yes, it’s good… it’s good, yes. Fuck!”

And then it all coalesced when his captor gave a guttural groan of his own, stuttered breaths and grunts slipping from that jagged mask’s mouth. The wet heat of his breath dampened the back of Dwight’s hair just as the sloshes of cum began to coat his inner walls.

The omega all but screamed as his orgasm oozed out of him onto the sheets below, all but howled as the tremors shook through him so hard he thought his bones would rattle to dust. The big cock continued to grind inside him, its knot repeatedly catching on his prostate and he sagged against the overstimulation that spiked through his lower regions. He sagged when the cum was kneaded out of him, almost unbearable for how closely the sensations vacillated between pain and pleasure.

“I…can’t…” he whispered, eyes rolled back and vision turning from blurred light to darkness.

The water was tepid, but to Dwight’s enflamed body it was as if he’d been submerged in a lake in the dead of winter. His eyes didn’t want to open, but he reached out with his hands, slapping and slipping until he found the edges of the tub into which he’d been placed. A palm dwarfed his chest as it settled over him—and he knew it, knew the rough feel and weight of it even after so short a time. It urged him back down into the water and he obeyed.

Moaning, he canted his head back, overcome with the dichotomy of the ice below and fire still infusing his neck and face and brain above.

The hand upon him was replaced with a rag, soaking and sweet-smelling. It sluiced a path along his chest and shoulders and around his neck and there the cold was welcome. When it settled on his forehead the relief was so immense he nearly slipped out of consciousness again.

Two fingers hooked under his chin and tilted his head back all the further once the rag disappeared. Gradually cool water was trickled onto his scalp. He wondered, with a deluded smile, if any steam had been made because of it.

He opened his eyes to see, but shapes were once again hard to discern. What he could make out was the bright light reflected so cruelly off the tiles and mirror of a large bathroom. After that, the only other important thing in the room was the naked man perched in a squat beside the tub, thick arms working water and soap into suds.

The mask was in place and Dwight didn’t know why. Not after what they’d done. Not after how he’d enjoyed it. Now after how he’d been enjoyed in turn.

While the alpha was distracted he reached out a shaky hand and touched it. He barely grazed the edge of it before the big man was whipping his head away and staring him down.

But this time when the mask tilted Dwight felt his lips curl.

He woke alone in the alpha’s nest. There was no other term for the sheets and blankets piled around him, as if they were some sort of pen keeping him in place. His first thought was to go back to sleep, but the dull ache of residual desire panged in his gut and the sharper ache in his ass made him reconsider.

It took some effort for him to sit up, propping his weight on his hip instead of his backside. He had to shuffle to one side of the huge bed, reaching out to the indistinct items on the bedside bureau. One of them was cool and smooth to the touch and he could feel its contents ripple. When he brought the cup to his face he smelled nothing and so sucked down the water without a second thought, or a first one for that matter.

After he’d drained it, he put the empty container back and patted the space around it until he found his glasses. They’d been folded carefully and he wished he had the mental capacity to be impressed that there were no smudges to wipe off when he looked through them.

The lights in the bedroom had been switched off, but brightness still bled into the space from beneath the door. It had to be enough. There was still a scratching dryness in his throat, still a yearning in his gut, and somewhere a memory of his frantic escape.

He rose to unsteady feet, falling to one knee when the bruises of his bad leg jolted in protest at the movement.

“Ngh,” he mumbled, wiping away the drool that dribbled from the corner of his lips at the admission of pain.

He used the bed to get back up, sucking unstable breaths in through both nostrils and mouth. It did nothing to clear the haze of his mind, but his muscles seemed to respond better with more oxygen in his system. He managed to clear the circumference of the bed, anyway, looking down to watch his feet and find the spot where his clothes had been discarded. His cellphone was still tucked into one of the pockets and if he could reach it… But his biking outfit wasn’t there, and if it had been kicked under the bed, he doubted he’d be able to lower himself and raise back up without his head spinning and forcing him back into hibernation.

He had a feeling they weren’t there either, though, so he ventured into the hall in the nude.

The first step he took out coincided with a bead of cum tickling down the inside of his right thigh. He closed his eyes, ashamed that he liked the way it felt. He was surprised at it, though. Hadn’t he been bathed? Had that been a hallucination? Or had he been bred so completely there’d been no getting it all out in one bath?

The thought made him shake and the light he’d been following was too bright now that he was facing the brunt of it so he sagged against the wall and used it to make his way towards the railing that separated the upstairs from the great room below.

It was easier to breathe out here, less of that musky heat to pervade his lungs, to corrupt his mind, but even here he caught the lingering trail of his alpha’s pheromones. Subconsciously, he followed them, ignoring the staircase entirely as he passed it. At the end of the hall, opposite of the den he’d been bred in, the scent of the muscular man curved right. There were bedrooms here as well, but when Dwight made to turn, the door he’d leant his weight against gave.

He stumbled into the now open room, catching the doorknob before he could fall again.

This room, too, smelled like the giant man, though it was empty, save for a couch against one wall and an antique desk against another. The desk was a beautiful thing, a rich, chocolate color with brass knobs accenting it. There were shelves along its sides and panels above the work surface. Strewn almost all over it were pages. They were thick and covered in pencil markings.

Drawings.

And the desk wasn’t the only place. This room was covered in them, literally, pinned haphazardly as they were to the walls. Dwight’s eyes roved over them, daunted by the detailed eyes and faces that stared back at him. He shuffled to the left first, attempting to walk around the room in a counterclockwise circle, though he lost track of the way his feet moved as he became more immersed in the pictures.

They were mostly of people, meticulously crafted and almost lifelike. He wondered who they’d been to his captor. He wondered where they were now. He wondered if they’d been killed. As he neared the desk he saw a face he recognized, though it took his foggy mind a second to match it to the old man in the portrait he’d seen downstairs. Next to it, the alpha had even drawn his younger self.

Above the desk the images changed; here he saw the things that had petrified him earlier. First, there was a sketch of the trap his leg had been caught in. Then, another trap—a trip wire of some sort. Then more sketches of things he was glad he hadn’t experienced. Among the last ones he surveyed was a sketch of the cleaver he thankfully hadn’t used except to frighten Dwight.

Right above the desk, a perfect rendition of the man’s mask stared back at him.

The sheets resting on the wood were either torn or wrinkled. Some had been completely warped into little balls. Many of them were resting in a trash bin beside the desk.

Underneath them, Dwight could see that at least one remained intact enough for him to tell its subject. Though the face drawn here had been scratched through with furious pencil strokes, it was clear that it had been a recent self-portrait.

He picked it up and tried to see beneath the lines. There was a name there.

The scent of his alpha interrupted him. Dwight reeled a little from it, putting a heavy palm on the desk to balance himself. He felt beneath his bare feet the shift of the wood as the big man stepped to him. He wondered, distantly, why he hadn’t gotten himself down those stairs.

He tightened the pinch of his fingers on the sheet he didn’t want to relent.

A hand clamped around the back of his neck.

Dwight found himself leaning back into it, letting it support him as he evidently could no longer support himself. He lifted the drawing over his shoulder.

_Is this why you wear that mask?_ He wanted to ask it aloud, but his tongue was too heavy, his mind too exhausted. _Do you hate your face?_ Dwight hadn’t thought it so bad. Even if that were the case why hide it in his home? Did he feel he needed to hide, even here where nobody but a stupid pizza boy had ventured?

Then he wondered… did the faces on the wall belong to people who _had_ been here before him? Was his picture going to be the next hung as a decoration?

The alpha turned him and reached for the sketch.

Stupidly, Dwight drew it back. “No,” he whispered in his delirium, “what does it say?” He peered down at it again, trying to make out the letters. There was an ‘E’—that much he could tell. He had to yank it out of reach again when the big man reacted faster and took a corner of it. The paper ripped at the rapid action, but the part with the name remained in the delivery boy’s shaking fingers.

Then the drawing was discarded and he was lifted, balanced like a bride between arms that dwarfed him.

He recognized that he was being carried back to the room, but he still leant against the embrace, grateful that his head didn’t loll against any projecting metal. It was more important, in his muddled mind, that he make out the name. When they crossed the threshold and the door shut after them, he did.

“Evan?” he asked.

As an answer, he was thrown bodily onto the bed. It caused mirror aches to rally in both his bruised leg and backside, but it wasn’t painful beyond that. If anything the way he bounced upon the mattress was almost comical. Or, well, it would be if he could laugh.

He rolled to his side and held up the slip between his middle and fore fingers. “Is your name Evan?”

He didn’t receive a reply though he’d hoped for one. He went with the push on his shoulder that repositioned him to lie on his belly. He remained there even as the hands left him, even as the bigger body left the bed, even as he heard the creaking of those leather coveralls. Then that hard body was over his again, hard _everywhere_.

This man wanted Dwight _again_.

How long had it been since the last time? Minutes? He’d been bathed, right? So, an hour? Two? How could an alpha be ready to breed an omega again so fast unless…?

Unless Dwight was in heat.

Oh, God. He was an idiot. Had he really thought the alpha’s smell had been that pervasive warmth? That the heat of his body had been melting Dwight’s skin? That the pleasure of sex had been what fried his mind?

He was in heat and he’d already been mounted and bred once. And that thick dick was back against him, seeking to do it again.

And what about after? He’d had one heat in his life, locked in the confines of his room. He’d been vulnerable for all of it and weak after it. When it came to that point, what would happen? Was he right about the people in those pictures? Was this something that had happened before to other unlucky omegas?

Why was he hurt at the prospect that it very well might be?

But, if so, did he caress them the way he’d done with Dwight? Did he wash them?

He didn’t have answers for any of this, though even if he could get his mind to work he doubt he’d have any better luck. All his blood was too preoccupied heating his body, relaxing it, filling it with desire and preparing it yet again.

He had the urge to push back with his hips, to offer them up. It was stunted when something pointed, though not sharp, pressed into the meat of his shoulder. He turned his head a little and looked from the corner of his eye. He found a blur of white in his peripheral and realized the big man was pressing teeth against him. The _mask’s_ teeth.

His breath shuddered.

The pseudo bite left his skin. Fingers slipped around his thighs and he found himself being guided around yet again, onto his back. He willingly spread his legs this time, no longer seeing a point in putting up a fight and not really wanting to. He curled the sheets around his fists when fingers explored him, tested his hole, released some of the pent-up fluid from within.

Apparently the appraisal of his lower regions reassured the alpha, because he simply applied lubrication to himself again and slid right back in.

Dwight would’ve cursed his body if it didn’t feel so damn good. He groaned, watching those hips get closer and closer to his own while simultaneously feeling the firm pressure sink back into place inch by inch. This time when he bottomed out there was no need for gentleness or slowness. He knew Dwight could take it.

He anchored those huge arms on either side of the delivery boy’s head, so vast was their size difference, and instantly started bucking down into him.

Dwight moaned at it, glad that his glasses had been left on his face so he could peer down and watch the union. Though he couldn’t see their actual joining, it didn’t stop him from imagining how lewd his pucker had to look gaping around that red cock. He could certainly _hear_ the suction of it. What he could see was the abdomen above him flexing and the squish of his own thighs where they pressed up against his alpha’s.

It was easier to keep his eyes trained down, but the problem with that was how loose all his muscles felt. That combined with the pleasure throbbing through him kept his head rolling back onto the pillow, eyes fluttering closed. When he inevitably opened them again, that white mask was hovering over him, the shadows of it hiding the dark eyes inside.

Trying to ride out the thrusts and keep his hands steady, Dwight reached up and tried to get his fingers under it. His captor immediately stopped and grabbed his wrists, but the delivery boy fought against the hold.

“Want it off,” Dwight murmured, lips numb and barely moving.

There was a beat. This time he got to feel the mask tilt and it moved his hands with it. And then he pushed it up and off.

He’d gotten a glimpse of his face before, though he hadn’t had long to stare at it. Now he looked his fill. He’d seen the scar across his mouth but now he could see the depth of it. Now he could wonder at the size of the weapon that had made it. He’d seen those brown eyes, but now he could see the richness of their color. He’d seen a hint of silver-lightning scars over his face, but now he could see how they interwove as a tapestry across his skin.

He wasn’t handsome, by any means, but Dwight didn’t think he was ugly, either.

He was bald, in fact all his face was devoid of hair, but it was still clear that his brow was pulled down in puzzlement.

And then it smoothed away, as if he understood something too far out of reach for the omega to grasp. The pounding continued then, punctuated and fast. Dwight couldn’t keep his arms up, couldn’t feel the scars like he was so curious to do—though, why, _why_ was he so curious?

His insides fluctuated between full and empty, overwhelmed and then yearning, and at times he found the anticipation headier than the waves of bliss and at other times he couldn’t help but want the pleasure to stay constant. To envelop him entirely so that even the thoughts trying to form in his head would give up, as he had.

The sheets were bunching in his hands and the smell of their union, of their pheromones mixing, made everything hot. He gurgled at the feeling, moaned when he could, gasped and arched and cried out to the ceiling. When it wasn’t enough he raised his legs, tried to lock his ankles in the small of the big man’s back but had to settle for just his toes. From there he dug in with his heels, again and again, urging his thrusts, commanding them to move faster, to stay deep and roll, to move out and start the pattern over again.

He grew a bit bolder with his hands, unfurling them and feeling the twinge in his knuckles from how hard his grip had been. He touched them, trembling as they were, to the straining wrists at either side of his head. He wasn’t shrugged off, so he curled his fingers there and held, grounding himself against everything surging through his body, pulsing from his ass and up.

“God, yes,” he groaned. It felt as though his back was digging its indentation into the mattress and in his delirium he wanted to see it. Wanted to rise and see the impression of his body as it had been fucked into the cushion.

He bucked his head into the pillow and looked up again. He’d expected those russet eyes to be cast downwards, to be watching the omega’s domination with rapt attention. But they were on Dwight’s face. Then they darted down to his neck and stuck.

His next thrust was his hardest, more of a jab than anything, something to bury him deep. The omega whimpered and squeezed the flanks between his legs.

The older man humped there, in no hurry to pull out and continue his onslaught, instead seemingly content to spread and feel the gripping heat around his erection. The grinding was good and Dwight swore he could feel the thick veins of him slipping over his prostate with every circular motion.

He unfurled one of his hands and slapped it to his own chest, excited and desperate for more. He touched over his nipples, wishing it was the alpha’s lips but too timid to grab him by the neck and drawn him down. He trailed the touch to his belly, floored and euphoric when those eyes followed it. He wanted to touch himself, to jerk himself and have the muscular man watch that and _want_ , but the moment he did he found he had to pinch tight to ward off that blessed crescendo.

“Fuck,” he sighed airily, “fuck, I’m close, I’m so close. Please, _please_ give it to me.”

Something changed in his captor’s face. He didn’t think his eyes could go soft, but they stopped looking so blank. It was as if the deadness he’d seen in them broke so that his thoughts could shine through.

And they told Dwight that he should have specified exactly _what_ it was he wanted.

That heavy body lowered upon him, near compressing their skin together so that he could drop his head and set his teeth to the joining of Dwight’s neck and shoulder. To where an alpha would mark his claim.

Dwight went taught. “No,” he choked. “No, not that. You can’t want that…”

The teeth released and suddenly he was being lifted, hauled onto the man’s lap. With nowhere to go but forward with his weight he placed it entirely upon his alpha’s chest. He put his hands there, too.

He whimpered when his jaw was taken and his head jerked aside to expose that spot again.

“You don’t even know my name,” the delivery boy sobbed, sucking shaky, wet breaths in to get oxygen to his deprived brain. “You won’t even t-talk—I don’t even… Is your name Evan?!”

He heard him give a grumbly sigh, though it sounded like consideration. Dwight’s face was turned back, forcing him to look upon the trapper through a watery filter.

“You don’t even know my name,” he repeated pitifully with those eyes roving him.

One thumb slipped over his bottom lip, the calluses foreign and rough. Then it moved up and whisked away the first spilled tear from his cheek.

“My name’s Dwight,” the omega whispered. “Do you care?” He was sick of being stared at, of being analyzed that way. “Please answer me.”

The bigger man leant in, his face blurring because of their proximity. The bridge of his nose bumped into Dwight’s and then the tip of it trailed over his cheek. It paused there and it occurred to the young man that he was closing in on his mouth. Was he trying to kiss him? Had he never kissed someone before?

Repressing a sob, though this time because of himself, Dwight tilted his chin and put their mouths together.

The hold on him softened as he tried to guide the kiss. He hadn’t had very many of his own, so at points it was too much pressure and then not enough, but by the end of it he found it easier to look at the other man’s face.

“Dwight,” the alpha repeated, voice deep and coarse, as if it hadn’t been used in years.

The breath that had stuck in the omega flooded out.

Without waiting this man— _Evan_ —started rolling inside him again. His grip was tight at his hips, goading Dwight to undulate. Goading him to regain the pleasure that had left their union so abruptly. Goading him back towards orgasm.

When he did, when he started rocking and bouncing and gasping, those strong hands left to search his belly and sides and back. And when one snuck away to maneuver his jaw again, he went with it and allowed his neck to be exposed.

The base of the dick within him began to swell, the knot growing. When it stuck, when it locked him in place, the teeth were back on him doing the same.

It stung when his skin gave, but there was a deliciousness to it. An exquisiteness to it. A _rightness_ to it.

His body shuddered and a surge of emotion—attachment, commitment, wholeness—flooded his chest. He gasped at it, groaned at the knowledge that the first pulse of his alpha’s cock coincided with it. He leant into it all, bucking to get more, to get closer in anyway he could, to be claimed and mated and bred.

To spill and scream in ecstasy because of it.

He felt the shatter of it roll out from his groin and the middle of his chest, so powerful that he had to cling to his mate to stay upright. He was held there and in his bliss he almost mistook it for cradling. His alpha continued to grind out his own orgasm, breathing deep but disjointed. He stopped with a grunt when his knot held firm.

After a moment, he moved, as easy as he’d already carried Dwight, and lay on his back so that his omega remained perched and locked and boneless above him.

Dwight was still hot, still too deep in his heat to think clearly, but all the same he thought this nice. That he felt nice. That for now he could sleep. That maybe the hands that settled over him and explored his back would do it again once he woke.

That maybe that one quiet utterance of his name could mean so much more one day… in all the days he now had ahead of him, trapped in that house. In those arms.

“Evan,” he whispered.

In response, questing fingers slipped over and through the blood coating their new bond mark.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Again, this was a commission for a lovely, patient, wonderful person who wishes to remain anonymous. I had a lot of fun writing this, though I will apologize a million times for how long it took me! Though I have not played Dead by Daylight myself I have watched many hours of it, spent several more discussing with people, and so I hope you didn't find this too out of character for your liking!
> 
> Thanks again for the commission! And thank you all for taking the time to read!


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